


And The Game Goes On

by xbedhead



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mrs. Coach advises Coach, One-Shot, a coaching moment, and he promptly takes that advise and motivates like a champ, can Coach Taylor give me a motivational speech to study for the GRE?, post-series canon AU, rapid-fire football talk!, season 6 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric gave him a tight smile and clapped his hand on the kid’s sweaty shoulder, steering him toward the basketball courts. “Don’t worry about that. I told you we’ll figure it out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Game Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> Only my second FNL fic and it's not beta'd. I miss this show so much. Con-crit and thoughts welcome.

“And this offense is what’ll fix everything?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying switching to a spread will allow Montez the room he needs to think on his feet. He doesn’t deal well with so many plays – you all have seen that.”

“What about the other boys – can they think on their feet with Montez, too?”

“They can learn.”

“They can _learn_. You wanna redesign our entire offense for a kid who’ll be back to returning the ball in a few weeks?”

“You got anything better? Any other suggestions? Because the way I see it, Meyer's knee won’t be ready for at least another _month_ and that puts us right at sectionals.”

“So you’re a doctor now?”

“You saw the way it bent. You saw it just like I did. A few _weeks_ , my ass. We need to find a way to work around this - not a temporary fix, but a permanent solution. What do _you_ think, Coach?”

“Yeah, what do you think, Coach?”

As four expectant faces turned to stare at him, Eric Taylor sat quietly in his rickety lounge chair, rocking back and forth as he took in their current situation.

At four and one, they were doing better than anyone thought they would have given the tough competition with two neighboring prep schools and a Catholic powerhouse. The night before, their quarterback had gone down with a twisted knee. Eric suspected an ACL, but they’d wait for the MRI results once the swelling had gone down. Their bench was light, had been all season, and taking Montez off of Special Teams to put him at full-time QB would gut Coach Gray’s line. The kid was athletic, would run the ball back a hundred yards on a return and be in the middle of the pack on defense, leaping to block a field goal from the opposing team. 

The way he’d scrambled the other night, evading tackles and throwing up pump fakes, ducking under a blitz and gaining another five yards here, six yards there – it had been an inspiration to the rest of the boys and they’d won by three points against a team that had been undefeated that season.

But…Montez Jones couldn’t remember a damn play to save his life – which was why he was on Special Teams in the first place.

He took his cap off and ran the edge of the brim between his thumb and forefinger. It was still the deep hunter green color it was when he’d come to Pemberton in the spring. At Dillon, he’d go through three or four a season, the sun bleaching out the royal blue and the salt from his sweat staining it white around the edges. 

Mid-September and suburban Philadelphia was already getting cool. He’d taken Gracie for a walk last weekend – they’d found leaves that were starting to change colors and she’d stuffed them into the pockets of her light jacket. Tami insisted that he invest in a thicker one as well, but he hadn’t had the time to go to the store and get one.

But none of that really mattered at the moment.

What mattered was that he had no idea what to do and he had a team depending on him to work it all out. Montez was the obvious choice, but what Coach Larson had said was more than the truth – they would have to redesign their offense to fit the kid in at a permanent quarterback. The only other contender was Devon Harris who was about a buck fifteen soaking wet and the fact that no one had even raised him as an option yet was enough to know what they would think of the idea.

He glanced at the large clock mounted on the wall above the door frame and sighed, inwardly welcoming the distraction. “What I think is that we have an unenviable situation on our hands. But we’ll figure it out,” he said quietly as he stood. “If y’all gentlemen would excuse me, I have a Daddy Lunch Date with my kindergartener.” 

-*-*-*-

“Honey, I know it’s not Dillon and these aren’t the boys you watched growing up, but teenagers are the same everywhere. They push boundaries, they talk back, but they really just want someone to believe in them, to expect something from them – they’ll push themselves. I know these boys feel that way about you.”

He held Tami’s feet in his lap as they sat in the living room enjoying a glass of wine together. Gracie was at the dinner table, finishing her color-by-number assignment from the Montessori school she was attending and their newest addition – a mixed-breed terrier from the rescue shelter – Jellybeans, was asleep in front of the entertainment center.

He turned his body toward her and draped his arm across the back of the leather couch. “You think I should play Montez? Even if we have to change our offense?”

“I think you should go with your gut.” She took a sip of her wine and gave him a knowing smile. “I’ve seen you pull miracles out of boys over the years. If that’s what it takes for this Montez kid, then I know you can do it. I know you can get _him_ to do it for himself.”

He set his wine glass down on the end table and gave her ankle a soft squeeze. “Was there some sorta course you took in college about how to be an amazing wife or is this all-natural Tami Buford?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her soundly on the lips.

She kissed him back and they nuzzled at one another, grinning, both knowing it was the weekend and Gracie was going on a hike in the park the next day with her entire class.

“All-natural, babe. A hundred percent,” she mumbled, kissing him once more before he sat up and cleared his throat. She took her feet out of his lap. “I know what that means.”

“You do?”

“You gonna go see Montez?”

He paused, taking in their reflection in the television screen. “It’s a long weekend – I need him to think about what he wants.”

“Should I put Gracie to bed?”

Eric glanced at the clock above the mantle. “Yeah – I think it’ll take longer than an hour.” He stood up and plucked his baseball cap off the coffee table.

Tami swung her feet off of the couch and took his hand, squeezing it before he pulled away and moved toward the kitchen. “Thanks for cookin’, hon – it was good.”

“I told you that I’d figure this dinner thing out,” he said as he fished his keys out of the catch all on the countertop. “Once I figured out my players and how they work together, then I can design my plays, execute.”

She grinned. “Your players being the Mrs. Dash and the garlic salt.”

“And my plays are my recipes. I’ll be back for that,” he said as he pointed to the half-full goblet. Then he pointed at Tami and gave her a wink, “I’ll be back for that, too.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” she asked, eyebrows arched as she demurred and settled back into the couch. 

“You know I will,” he hollered over his shoulder as he opened the front door. “I always will.”

-*-*-*-

Eric removed his Pioneers cap and smoothed down his hair just as the apartment door was opening. “Evenin’, Mrs. Jones.”

“Oh, I’m a Baker, but you can call me Harriett. Jones is Montez’s daddy’s name.”

“I apologize, m’am. I also apologize for coming over so late. I hope it’s all right.”

She shifted the six-month old on her hip and tucked a stray braid behind her ear. “Not a problem. What can I do for you, Coach?”

“Well, m’am, I was wonderin’ if I could speak with Montez a moment. Is he around?”

She gestured toward the far end of the street. “He’s out there playing basketball with his buddies. Is everything okay?” she asked, concern in her eyes.

“Oh, everything’s fine. But you know with Meyers down, we’re going to have to be making some changes to our offense.”

“Montez mentioned something about that. Sorry I didn’t get to go to last night’s game – I work third shift on Thursdays.”

“That’s all right, though I know Montez would love the support. He played a hell of a game.”

“Well, thank you, Coach. I know Montez would be happy to hear that – he thinks a lot of you. You’ve done some great work with those boys.”

He ducked his head in thanks and returned his baseball cap to his head. “I appreciate that, m’am. Who’s this little guy?” he asked, gently running his finger along the baby’s carmel-colored cheek.

Harriett shifted her hip toward Eric and the baby waved his chubby fingers. “This is Marcus, my very own grandbaby. I’m watching him while his momma, Angel, is at work.”

Eric grinned at the baby, who promptly gave him a toothless smile in return. “He’s a cute kid. How’s his arm?” he asked with a smile.

Harriett laughed. “I’ll let you know in about fifteen years.”

“A’right, m’am. You have a nice night now.”

“You, too, Coach.”

She closed the door and he made his way down the dark steps, through the parking lot and down the sidewalk. The middle-class neighborhood was fairly quiet, save for a few televisions and stereos playing. Not many cars passed him as he walked toward the well-lit park where he could hear basketballs bouncing and carousing going on.

Before he’d even entered the chain link fence that surrounded the basketball courts, Montez was trotting over. Shirtless and covered in sweat with his red and black shorts hanging low around his hips, he was grinning as he came to a stop. 

“Whatchu doin’ out here this time of night, Coach?”

Eric reached his hand out and shook Montez’s. “Thought I’d come out here, try to work on my game,” he deadpanned. “You got a minute?”

“Yes, sir,” Montez nodded, calling over his shoulder to the other guys milling about, “I be back in a minute, a’ight?”

“These your boys?” Eric asked as they walked a few feet away to an empty picnic table.

“Yeah – we been playin’ ball since we was little kids. Most of ‘em go to Pemberton – some of ‘em dropped out already, some graduated.” Montez made himself comfortable on the tabletop, his feet propped on the bench, while Eric straddled the seat and took off his hat. “So whassup, Coach?”

Eric rapped his knuckles on the scratched and worn wood of the table and gave Montez an even stare. “You played a good game the other night.”

“Thanks.”

“I know we haven’t practiced you too much at QB, but I want you to know I’m proud of what you were able to do the other night – it’s not easy, getting’ dropped into a game like that.”

Montez nodded and wiped away a bead of sweat that had leaked past his Jordan headband.

“Do you know what one of the most powerful things in the world is, Montez?” Eric asked suddenly.

To his credit, the question didn’t seem to throw him and Montez cracked a lopsided grin and shrugged. “Money?”

“ _Expectation_ ,” Eric answered steadily. “Expectation is one of the most powerful tools and you know why?”

“No.”

“Because no matter who you are or where you’re from or how old you get, expectation can be what drives you to success or failure. Whether it’s from yourself or your coaches or your mother or your teachers, your friends – it pushes us outside of what we think we can do.”

Eric let that settle in for a moment and when Montez said nothing, he asked, “You get what I’m sayin’, son?”

Montez cleared his throat and looked down for moment, glancing back up before answering, “I think so.”

“Now those expectations can be good or bad,” Eric continued, looking directly into Montez’s eyes. “People can expect us to fail, can expect us to excel. The real question is – what do you expect from yourself?”

Montez stared back at him, but said nothing. Eric could see the wheels turning, read the twitch in his eyes, the way he was biting his lip. “You’re an athlete, a _gifted_ athlete, son. I think you have a real chance to do something here, to help lead this team. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can lead our team?”

His mouth opening, then closing, Montez sat a moment before replying, “That’s a lot, Coach. That’s…it’s heavy.”

“I know it,” Eric nodded. “I know it is, believe me – and the fact that you didn’t just tell me right off what I wanted to hear makes me think you’re putting a little more thought into this than people would give you credit for.”

“Coach, I love playing QB, but…I dunno,” Montez answered, hesitation in his voice. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Part of that’s my job – I’ll help to get you ready if you’re willing to work for it.”

Montez stood abruptly, lifting his feet quickly like he was working out cramps in his calves. He paced the length of the picnic table once, twice, a third time, while Eric trained his eyes on him.

He watched as Montez flexed his hands into fists, opening and closing them, taking in the pick-up game that was still going on. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself once more, letting out a heavy sigh as he fell back onto the table again. With his elbows on his knees and head in his hands, he admitted, “I got dyslexia, Coach. I…I can’t read the plays right – they get all jumbled and I get nervous and I screw it all up.”

Eric frowned and leaned forward so he wasn’t speaking so loud. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

Montez turned slightly, head still in his hands. “I didn’t think it mattered – Coach Gray’s got me on Special Teams lettin’ me do my thing and it’s just me and my moms who knows. My sister just thinks I’m stupid,” he added with a self-deprecating smile.

Eric considered the revelation for a moment. It wasn’t anything close to what he’d been expecting. “Any of your teachers know?”

Montez shook his head.

“What about the guidance counselor?”

He sat up then, sighing once more, this time in exasperation. “Naw, man – the last one I told that to, she laughed and said I was clever, like…like I was tryin’ to get outta my homework or somethin’. She don’t work there no more, though, so it don’t really matter.”

Eric leaned in close, invading Montez’s space and making sure he had the boy’s attention before he spoke. “Son, listen to me – it _does_ matter. I want you to come to school early on Monday, can you do that? I’ll go with you to the office and we’ll get something worked out. I checked your grades – you’re barely passin’.”

Montez gave him an incredulous look. “You know how much I gotta read? School’s _hard_ , Coach.”

“I’m sure it is. But you’re not a dumb kid. We’ll get this figured out.”

Montez gave him a doubtful look, to which Eric confirmed, “We will.”

Just then one of the guys from the earlier pick up game came sprinting down the hill toward them. “Mont, you comin’? We gettin’ killed up there.”

“Yeah, I be there in a second.”

The kid ran off and Montez and Eric exchanged looks that signaled the conversation was over – for the moment. As they stood, Montez turned to Eric and asked, “What about the QB spot, Coach – what’re we gonna do?”

Eric gave him a tight smile and clapped his hand on the kid’s sweaty shoulder, steering him toward the basketball courts. “Don’t worry about that. I told you we’ll figure it out.”


End file.
